travails

The path to the Wal-Mart hair dye aisle is, for me at least, tortorous. It started with a simple enough highlighting job on bro-in-law1. Well, my “pulling a clump of hair through a cap” skills obviously need some work, because he ended up with a blond patch over his left ear and brown patches elsewhere. Not. Cool. We decided to try to remedy the situation by adding a few more blond streaks and (I swear this was not my idea) lightening his sideburns. Yes, I know that last statement officially qualifies me for a very bad place. But hey! It’s all fun and games…until we rinse the bleach out. And then it was still pretty funny. Yeah, SO not cool. So off we go to Wal-Mart, searching for a remedy (since Sally’s was already closed). At some point he asked, “Should I call your sisters and find out if you’re qualified to do this?” The answer to that is a big fat “No. They’ll tell you to run in the other direction.” We ended up with a box of medium brown dye (decision based solely on the question, “who looks younger?”) and went home to dab it on gingerly, in stages. The final product looks fine–edgy, but not bizarre, but I need to give this up. I can’t handle the pressure. Oh, and all those hair stylists out there? I salute you. I think the fear I feel while messing with someone’s hair is equivilent to what I would imagine a parachute jump would be.

The above tale is only one of the wonderful ways in which I spend my free time. And I wonder why I feel stressed?